Forced by a sudden gush of nostalgia, the sight of a Hero
pen put me on an auto mode in which I robotically took one to the counter and paid
for it.
I also got an ink pot. No, the nostalgia story was cut short
of perfection for I couldn't get a "Bril" ink bottle. But that is ok
I suppose. Too much goodness runs the risk of being cloying.
I just reached home and filled it with ink.
Here it is :)
It is fascinating how certain objects tap specific memory
banks in our minds, bringing up memories we didn't know we had.
I remember the daily ritual of filling ink in the morning
before going to school, of the "ink" cloth that lies inside the ink
bottle's paper box that was so fascinatingly patterned after a while that we could
have done Rorschach tests with it, of the various pens that I have had, of the
multiple pencil boxes that I have had. God. I could go on. It's like a Wikipedia
rabbit hole. Each click leading to a new memory. But this post is about the
Hero pen.
Or more specifically, about what I think the Hero pen taught
me, at least subconsciously. Many of the lessons below are my retrospective fit
of what my young, naive mind might have taken
in without understanding or realizing the import at that time. But I am sure
they left a mark.
Hero pens taught me patience. A new Hero pen's nib is rough.
It scratches the paper when we write with it. It sends a jarring note down our arm into our teeth. It is annoying,
irritating and slows down the speed of writing. But it smoothens. With every
page and every word written. So I used to persist with it, knowing that every
word I wrote was making the nib smoother.
Some things need work and there is nothing
we can do about it except putting in the time.
Hero pens taught me that I can have pride in something that
I have worked hard for. A smooth fountain pen was a matter of pride among my
friends. Having used a Hero pen for months & years, the fluidity it reaches
and the familiarity of the pen in my hand were proud possessions- the
heft of the pen, the balance of the weight, the impact of putting the cap on
the back on that balance, accurate judgement of how long an ink fill will last.
Having a pen and knowing these about it were matters of pride.
Some things cannot be bought,
transferred or given, even in good will.
Hero pens taught me about sharing. When I was thinking about
this, I realized I remember all my friends whom had given ink to me or taken
from me in class. Not many such friends. But that's probably telling. They were
and are still some of my best friends. Those were "inked" bonds.
Some relationships are special and we can
lean on them in a time of need.
Hero pens taught me that the world can seem like an unfair
place but that it doesn't really matter. Some were able to get Parker pens
which were all smooth right out of the
box. Some were cooler and had Pilot microtip pens which were not even fountain
pens. These were the aspirational stuff then. For some lucky ones a fountain pen used to
start writing smoothly from the start. These things were always a cause of
great envy. But I had a Hero pen that was as good or better and it was mine and it
served me well.
Some people have it easy and some people don't.
But this really has no impact on our lives.
Hero pens taught me to treat precious things preciously.
Having a pen for a considerable period of time means it gets emotionally important after a point. It goes from being a pen to becoming my pen. The
value an object commands is many a times a function of our internal framework.
My dad had a pen for close to 3 decades. And as dads are always our heroes, for
me owning a pen at that time for as long as possible was a matter of personal
expectation. Though I never even came close to my dad's record because roller
balls & gel pens took over around the time I finished school, I still remember the "care" I took
of my old pens - just a few notches below the level of me murmuring "my
precious".
The importance of a thing is not intrinsic. It's
completely up to us. And it will show in how we deal with it.
I used "pens" in plural in all the illustrations
above. And there is a reason. And its related to probably the most lesson of all that the hero pens have taught
me. Hero pens taught me the reality of loss. That gut wrenching few seconds
when the pen slips from the desk - the frantic but unsuccessful grasp in mid
air, the sound of the pen hitting the floor registering in the ears, the
hoping-against-hope that the pen landed on the back tip instead of the nib,
reaching down to pick the pen up with the heart thumping in the ears, praying
to all the gods in all the religions as the nib is tested on the notebook and
the final deadening realization that the nib is broken. That is it. The few
seconds cannot be undone. The world's unfairness had nothing to do with it. The
god or gods had nothing to do with it. The friend who was talking when the pen
slipped had nothing to do with it. I messed up for a second and what was gone
will remain gone.
Some losses are permanent. We
just have to accept it irrespective of whether there was or wasn't anything that we could have done
differently.
Well, I know that these are some strong points to attribute
to something as trivial as a pen. But I think that is how learning happens - over
time, from all the things in our life small and big, from all the people in our
life petty and kind and from all the events in our life eventful and
non-eventful.
Everything counts.
Everything - however negligible, however subliminal - teaches us.
Even my Hero pens.
